


Some Things

by Twisted_Mind



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon Compliant, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Not a Love Story, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the 5th day of Christmas, I give you . . . well, I actually don't know what the righteous fuck this is, but it's simultaneously hot and terrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostxWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostxWriter/gifts).



> Originally posted Dec 18th 2012 at HP Fandom as a Christmas gift. Edited upon re-posting here.
> 
> Disclaimer: While the below is terrifyingly plausible for these two men, I'm not JKR, and I don't own.

Some things never change—and that can be both a comfort and a curse.  
  
After yet another Order meeting where we exchange more insults than information, I finally have enough of that greasy git sneering in my face and stalk off. It’s my house, damnit, and showing me the smallest modicum of respect wouldn’t kill anyone.  
  
Snape—the great ruddy bat—follows me into the hall. I turn, glare at him, and then stalk off down the corridor and into one of the random unused bedrooms. I’m not in there for anything—I just want some space from him and his hate-filled eyes and venomous tongue. Sadly, he follows me. What happens next is so predictable, it’s downright boring.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry mutt. Did I trip over you while you wandered away to lick your wounded pride?”  
  
“Shove off, you great bat! If I want to wander around _my own damn house_ then that’s my business.”  
  
“Oh, my apologies! I shouldn’t have dared to question the lord of the manor!”  
  
“You know what? At least I have a home!”  
  
“Juvenile as ever, Black!”  
  
“Oh, I’m the immature one? Bit rich coming from Dark Arts-loving scum!”  
  
“Coward!”  
  
“Murderer!”  
  
And with those last insults, it comes to blows. Not the magical kind, oh no; for while I was always taught that a wizard fights with his wand, and never Muggle fisticuffs, and regardless of whatever Snape was taught, it always comes to blows with us. We seem to inspire such utter madness in each other that all pretense of civility shoots down the loo.  
  
We lash out, blackening eyes and splitting lips, bruising bones and raising lumps on each other’s bodies. At some point, strikes turn into clawing, and clawing turns to grasping. And then, suddenly, I’m hissing as those crooked teeth sink into my neck, and my hands—which are fisted in his long, oily hair—aren’t pushing him away, but dragging his mouth up to meet my own.  
  
We suck and bite at each other’s mouths, further splitting lips and tasting blood; an act too vicious to call a kiss. My grip on his hair forces his head back, and suddenly those long-fingered hands are shoving at my hips until I stagger into a wall. He’s on me in a heartbeat, pulling my hair and shoving one of his legs between my own with such force that it ought to hurt—but instead, it only fuels the madness, the insane violent lust that hisses and sparks between us.  
  
I rut against his thigh, even as I curl my foot around his ankle and shove at his chest—causing him to fall backwards. He lands flat on his back, and I land on top of his bony body, driving the air from his lungs. I don’t waste any time in shoving my right hand down his trousers, roughly squeezing the cock inside. I don’t care that my nails are probably too long for this, that their ragged edges are probably digging painfully into Snape’s prick. I don’t think he cares either—much the same way that I don’t _truly_ care when he rakes his own nails across my face, drawing blood from one cheek. The ragged tears sting when he licks at the blood that wells up moments later. Insane as it is, we don’t care because in and amongst the intense urge get off is the overwhelming desire to cause each other as much pain as humanly possible.  
  
Snape has obviously gotten his second wind, because his hands pull at my shirt, the old cotton giving way with a dull ripping sound, and his teeth clamp around one of my nipples. He sets his teeth even more firmly, and I jerk back automatically. He bucks then, flipping us over so that I’m under him, and the movement causes his teeth to break the skin of my chest.  
  
And then he’s grinding against my leg, and I’m arching upwards against his abdomen as he somehow manages to _bite down harder_ , and we’re both coming on the pain and the anger and the pent-up frustration.  
  
As soon as it’s over, he casts Cleaning Charms on us both—because neither of us wants a memento of this. The lumps and bruises are too much of a reminder on their own. Luckily, we’re both wizards capable of Healing Charms, so those will shortly disappear—though it can’t happen fast enough.  
  
He scrambles to his feet suddenly, glaring down at me. “This doesn’t change _anything_ , Black,” he spits out hatefully, before he spins on his heel and stalks out of the room.  
  
I snort, still half-sprawled on the floor. I remember the first time he said that to me, the first time this . . .  _madness_ overtook our senses and left us with bloodied faces and creamed pants. I’d bet my last Knut that he’ll say it the next time it happens, too.  
  
Some things don’t change.  
  
  
  



End file.
